


you have your mother's face

by Emeka



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Extremely Underage, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: Sigurd misses his wife.
Relationships: Celice | Seliph/Siglud | Sigurd
Comments: 21
Kudos: 48





	you have your mother's face

If Sigurd had been a more experienced man, or their marriage lasted longer, maybe he'd be able to bear this loss in his bed easier. Pathetic, but there it is. He and Deirdre had barely been together long enough to live out their honeymoon phase before she disappeared to--gods know where. After conceiving and bearing his child.

It’s been near a year since then, and his forced retreat to Silesse. Every memory of the smell of her hair and knowing her body is full with bitter longing. Many of his comrades have found another to their liking and married, and his sister is heavy with her second child now. The feeling of envy is also bitter to him, but it rises when he sees them together, and knowing in some way the comfort they have at night.

Sigurd has his son, which is something… but Seliph is not much of a conversationalist yet, and while he has his father’s hair and his eyes have stayed blue, it is not his own face he sees when he looks at him. 

Some night he and Quan have dinner by their lonesomes, just two old schoolboy chums, and after their toast he admits to the cleaner parts of his longing: the loneliness, the uncertainty about her fate, his helplessness in being unable to search for her. The toast turned into something a little more involved by the end of their meal, leaving his body warm and mind warmer, melted free into something that went greedily over his wedding night, and the times he, Quan, and Eldigan would ‘help’ each other out, just because it was a hand not their own. He briefly considered asking for a favor--but Quan is married now to Ethlyn, his _sister_ , and even if Quan would be amenable, Sigurd’s love for her is not. If Eldigan was here, maybe…

But thinking of Eldigan only brought more pain.

He made his way back to his room with his son on unsteady feet, ushering out Shannan and Oifey. A father should at least be able to care for his child throughout the night. Nowadays he has not much else better to do anyway; and growing boys need sleep, too. They shouldn’t have to worry about them, though him coming in like this won’t help. No doubt he’s going to get plenty of concerned questioning in the morning.

Seliph is getting his own sleep to grow on as well. He isn’t a particularly boisterous baby but asleep you can really see the resemblance. Like his mother there’s a delicacy to his features, a solemnity to the shape of his mouth that lights up his whole face when it smiles. No doubt he’ll make for a pretty young man as an adult.

Sigurd slowly strokes his face with a finger. His cheek even feels like Deirdre’s… soft, round and silky-smooth, the slightly sinking sensation under the weight of his touch. Warm. The movement makes his bottom lip pull free from the upper, forming a plump little circle, and again he thinks of Deirdre, pursing her lips for a kiss.

He starts one-handedly pulling at his belt to loosen it, quick, before he can sober himself up to any rational thought. Lovemaking with his wife had consisted of what two virgins could know about sex, foreplay and penetration, mostly missionary. He knew in vague ways of other things but had been in no hurry to do them. They had all the time in the world, he thought, to savor their life slowly.

Should have asked for Quan over doing this. But that would be asking him to cheat, and Seliph isn’t old enough to remember or be hurt by this. No one but him will know, which is how it should be.

His cock is half-hard but responds readily to the situation. Just think of Deirdre, he tells himself, but isn’t quite able to. Maybe it’s the thought that Seliph deserves more than to be forgotten or used only as a replacement. Or maybe it’s just impossible to think of anything other than what he’s looking at when he’s leading the tip of his penis to his infant son’s mouth. The first mouth it will ever be in.

The glans is so large compared to his son’s rosebud mouth; he just feels a soft kiss of flesh against the very tip, where it is already wet. He shifts a little back and forth, leaving shine like applying lip gloss, as he tries to gently make room to enter. The head is all he’s likely to get in, but the way he’s been feeling lately it’s all he’ll need.

He pops in against Seliph’s ridge of gums, but they pry open easily with a little pressure. A few half-grown nubs of teeth massage around the corona they rest on. It really is so _small_ inside, a succulent pocket of velvety wetness, that it is very difficult to keep still and stroke his shaft. He twists it like milking, ending in, he imagines, more pre-come pooling in his son’s mouth. Something about the liquid or having something in his mouth must provoke something instinctual; Seliph does not fidget or cry, but remain placid, and inside he feels the clumsy flicking of his tongue into his slit, followed by attempted sucking.

“Damn,” he mutters, bracing himself against the shocks of pleasure lighting through his groin. He hadn’t counted on much of anything, but definitely not on Seliph reciprocating, to use the word loosely. Gods, it feels good, though. Even the sight is strangely exciting, his cheeks puffed out to take his cock and trembling with movement. He’s about to come, should pull out… but his head is dizzy with liquor and want and memories, and the closer he gets the harder Seliph seems to suck, like he _enjoys_ the taste of his pre-come and wants more. Concepts of morality get further and further away.

Seliph’s mouth overflows on the first spurt of milk. The rest bubbles up and overflows, trickling down the corner of his mouth into his hair. Sigurd’s stroking intensifies, milking in earnest now to wring out every drop as his son finally starts to fuss. More semen flows out of his mouth with each gagging cough and choke. If he could get the air to, he’d probably cry.

“Shhh, my poor boy.” He presses his lips to his, like he had once kissed Deirdre, though this salty flavor is something new, and licks around his son’s swirling tongue, sucking in a mouthful of his own come. It’s the only way he can think of to clean him up before he asphyxiates. “Daddy is sorry, alright? It’ll never happen again.” If for no other reason than any older, and he might actually remember something to be traumatized by.


End file.
